


touch me gently, like a summer evening breeze

by quidhitch



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, and simple domestic affection, between two people in love, hmmm... i just had some feelings about the progression of physical intimacy, insert this into whatever steve tony timeline u will... even /i/ do not know where it belongs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 21:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16205732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: What is this,Tony’s brain screams. There are alarm bells going off in his head, but also, like, romantic violins. It’s very confusing. He focuses on the freckle beneath Steve’s eye instead.





	touch me gently, like a summer evening breeze

**Author's Note:**

> me writing this self-indulgent soft nonsense while i've got a multichaptered wip i should be working on? It's More Likely Than You Think

Any combination of Steve and forced public relations is a disaster. Tony thinks there’s something incredible about it, of course, he could watch the clip of Steve verbally decimating that Fox News Anchor literally all day, but the toll it extracts from Steve neutralizes any lingering amusement. Tony thinks such endeavors remind him of his USO days, of disrespect and manipulation, of a set of skills wasted at the hands of people who just wanted to make money. Tony knows Steve feels personally responsible for the people who died in the moments Captain America wasn’t actively trying to save the world. He may not understand it - it’s a ridiculous, over-the-top kind of altruism - but he knows it's real for Steve, it's an inescapable part of who he is. Tony’s told SHIELD all of this, repeatedly, really, with varying degrees of patience and snark, and yet they’ve found themselves in a similar situation once again.

“Steve,” Tony says, jogging after him and wrangling his own mic off, crushing it under the toe of his dress shoes. Steve’s still wearing his, and Tony can’t say anything helpful until he disables it, but Steve refuses to turn around, instead charging forward with the kind of single-minded purpose he typically reserves for the battlefield.

“Steve,” Tony repeats meaningfully, and wonders if he’s ever made Pepper feel this helpless.

Steve roughly pushes open a random door, disappearing inside it and nearly letting it close on Tony as he scrambles to catch up with him.

“Cap, come on,” Tony feels a brief surge of relief at the fact he’s at least happened upon an empty room. “I need to get your mic off, just turn around. Afterward, I’ll call a car and we can leave.”

Steve, still faced away from him, has his hands braced on the edge of the conference table, the line of his shoulders tight and intimidating. “I just need a minute, Tony,” his voice is dismissive, clipped. He’s all aggressive posturing right now, but Tony remembers him spilling coffee all over himself this morning during breakfast, and that makes the remnants of his reservation melt away.

“I know you do,” Tony assures, softening a little. He takes a jerky, halting step forward and carefully places a hand on Steve’s shoulder. He remains tense, but he doesn’t bat Tony away, so Tony figures that’s a win. “I fully intend to give you a minute. Several minutes, actually, I think you’re entitled to that, but first, we just need to…”

It’s shockingly easy, actually. Tony’s hand moves down to his bicep, tugs just the slightest bit, and for all the tension Steve’s carrying in his body, he turns at the slightest pressure from Tony’s fingers. The look on his face, so tense and angry and hurt, chips away at whatever is thudding painfully in Tony's chest. He purses his lips, fumbling with Steve’s suit jacket to get the microphone off. There’s something strangely intimate about it, how close they’re standing and how intently Steve’s watching him. Tony drops the mic with unsteady fingers, quickly crushing it under the heel of his shoe.

“The question was from a conservative outlet,” Tony says when he looks up, feeling a kind of desperation well up in him. He just wants Steve to stop looking like that, like he’s carrying a hundred years worth of sadness in the line of his brow. “It was tailor-made to rile you up. That’s - that’s what they do, that’s journalism. It wasn’t personal. He was deliberately trying to be a douchebag, to get a rise out of a national icon. It’s how they bump ratings.”

“I know,” Steve says hands flexing at his sides. “I know. I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

Tony rolls his eyes a little, shaking his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t have to be fine, either - it’s, it’s pretty fucked up, I know. You want me to talk to Fury again, about how much you hate these? I will. I’ll call him in the car on the way home, really chew him out this time. Tell him if he doesn’t stop booking them I’m gonna run naked through Central Park every Sunday in protest.”

The barely-controlled anger in Steve’s eyes starts to fade a little. He looks like he wants to smile, but he can’t quite remember how.

“You think I’m kidding, Steve? I’m not. You can come with me, take pictures to send to the press. We’ll suggest headlines, too. Stuff that’s really clever. The phrase ‘stark naked’ will definitely be involved.”

Steve blinks at him a few more times and exhales, breath shuddering. And before Tony can really even comprehend what he’s doing, he feels himself reach up to brush at the soft hair flopped over Steve’s forehead. Tony hates how cheesy it sounds, even in his own head, but time seems to slow just the slightest bit as Steve leans into his touch and Tony, heart thundering in his chest, opens his palm to cup Steve’s cheek. There is something unbearably soft and breakable about this moment and Tony doesn’t feel qualified to be holding it.

And yet he can’t stop, now, his other hand coming to rest against the soft skin of Steve’s neck. He steps closer, feeling clumsy and terrible until Steve leans down to press their foreheads together.

 _What is this_ , Tony’s brain screams. There are alarm bells going off in his head, but also, like, romantic violins. It’s very confusing. He focuses on the freckle beneath Steve’s eye instead.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, and suddenly his hand is resting on top of Tony’s, keeping it there. _When did that happen_ , Tony thinks dizzily.

“Shut up,” Tony says back, voice soft as his fingers tighten around the back of Steve’s neck. Steve’s eyes flutter closed, and he finally smiles, soft and uncertain. “It’s fine. Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

Tony walks into the sitting room to find six Avengers in various states of awe over a very small, very orange kitten, who is presently gnawing on what appears to be a pair of his own (expensive) sunglasses.

“What’s this?” Tony asks, shrugging off his blazer and flopping onto the couch next to Steve. Steve wordlessly scoots a little closer so that the length of their arms press together. It’s nice, but Tony wonders why he needs the comfort given the generally relaxed atmosphere of the room.

“Sam found a kitten in a dumpster,” Clint explains, and Natasha surreptitiously pulls Tony’s sunglasses out from between the kitten’s tiny teeth. “She’s staying here tonight ‘cause all the shelters are closed. Steve’s gonna drop her off at a no-kill joint tomorrow morning.”

“Can have someone do that for you,” Tony reminds in a low voice, eyes moving carefully to Steve.

Steve, who still seems a bit on edge, shakes his head slightly, a small smile turning his mouth. “It’s fine.”

Tony’s eyebrows draw together in concern, but he’s not going to say anything with the rest of the team in the room. He presses his shoulder firmly against Steve’s and watches the rest of the Avengers fawn over the kitten. Thor tells her that she’ll be able to lift Mjolnir once she’s all grown up, and he lets her chew on one of his giant fingers. Bruce is surprisingly amiable to her scaling up his back, little claws hooking into his purple dress shirt. Natasha has a way with her like Natasha has a way with everyone, three strokes over the kitten’s head and she’s dozing peacefully on the knee of the world’s most dangerous assassin.

“You should pet her, Tony,” Natasha says mildly. Clint is asleep and drooling a little on her shoulder. “It’s supposed to be good for you. Pet therapy or whatever.”

Tony considers the kitten warily. “What if it has rabies?”

Natasha arches a devastating eyebrow, “I took that chance when I first met you.”

Tony rolls his eyes a little, but when the kitten wakes up a few minutes later he doesn’t object to Natasha dumping her in his lap. She looks up at him with soulful blue eyes and she’s so tiny and almost blonde-ish, in this light, and Tony thinks…. awww, she kind of looks like Steve. He pats her back and she butts her head into his hand, purring quietly. He turns to Steve, to share this revelation, but Tony finds that he’s risen from the couch and en route to the kitchen.

Tony frowns.

The rest of the Avengers start to filter out of the sitting room. Natasha and Clint leave in a pair like they always do. Bruce mumbles something about lab work. Thor falls asleep on the couch and gets jolted awake by Sam, who wants to pop into the training room for a late night sparring session. Soon it’s just Tony, the kitten, and Steve, standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the sitting room in a stance that could not be more uncomfortable if it tried.

“Come pet the kitten,” Tony says, lifting her up meaningfully. She lolls her head onto his hand and he lowers her carefully back onto his leg.

“I don’t really—“ Steve’s voice halts and stalls. He tucks his hands into his front pockets awkwardly and breaks eye contact with Tony, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Tony frowns again. “Why?”

Steve purses his lips and looks like he’d rather not explain, but Tony is too stubborn to let this kind of thing go, keeping steady eye contact until he sees Steve’s resolve weaken a little. “I have— I have enhanced strength, in this body,” Steve says tersely, “and I can’t always control it. Wouldn’t want to end up squishing her.”

For a second Tony thinks this man has to be joking. Despite his size and strength, Steve has some of the most delicate, careful hands Tony’s ever seen, and Tony would know ‘cause he’s spent an inordinate amount of time watching them. Steve bandages wounds with carefully controlled efficiency, he ties the most intricate knots and laces when the situation calls for it, and he knits! The chunkiest, ugliest sweaters, of course, but it’s knitting nonetheless.

“Oh come on,” Tony starts, a small entreating smile curving his mouth, “Cap, that’s ridiculous. You’re not going to squish this kitten, come here.”

“I don’t know if I should take the risk—“

“Steven,” Tony cuts off, shaking his head, “It’ll be fine, if for some reason you lose control and pull a Bruce, I swear I’ll hit you over the head with the nearest heavy object. No kittens will be harmed in the making of this evening. Come _here_.”

Steve is still hesitating, but he eventually moves tentatively back into the sitting room, movements slow like he’s defusing a hostage situation rather than interacting with a small animal. Tony is caught between being frustrated and being hopelessly endeared - unfortunately, when it comes to Steve, he finds he often falls on the side of the latter.

Steve is now sitting next to him, but he’s making absolutely no move to touch the kitten. He’s instead staring at her with slightly narrowed, suspicious eyes, like she might try to pull one over on him. “Jesus Christ, Cap,” Tony intones and, without thinking about it, reaches for Steve’s hand, taking it gingerly in his and guiding it towards the kitten. “Here, just stroke her back. If she doesn’t like it she’ll bite you, she’s very direct like that.”

Despite Tony’s reassurances, Steve’s still hesitating as Tony places his hand gently on the kitten’s back. He must give her the softest pet imaginable and Tony makes the mistake of looking at his face, which is screwed up in battle-worthy concentration. Tony very abruptly thinks _fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I love him._

They go on like that for a few minutes, Steve stroking the cat, fingers brushing against Tony’s thigh every so often as he moves along the grain of her fur. The moment would be more relaxing if Tony wasn’t trying desperately not to panic at the prospect of falling in love with Captain America. Steve seems at peace though, his face gradually relaxing as it becomes clear he’s at absolutely no risk of accidentally concussing the kitten.

“This is nice,” Steve admits in a quiet voice, turning a small, fond smile at Tony. “Thank you.”

Tony looks away, turning his eyes down on the kitten, who has rolled onto her back and is staring up at Tony with those clear blue eyes. _Damn it._

“Anytime, Cap,” Tony replies, his voice a forced kind of breezy as he rubs at the kitten’s stomach, “Anytime.”

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes up with his cheek pressed against Steve’s collar and his fingers curled loosely in the front of Steve’s t-shirt.

This is confusing for several reasons. Firstly, he’s pretty sure he spent the entire night and morning in the lab. He left exactly two times: once to refill coffee and once to wash his face with cold water in an attempt to fight off the first signs of drowsiness. The last thing he remembers is sitting down, just for a second, with imminent plans to run a safety test on Mark 47.

He is decidedly not doing that right now.

Tony can usually work himself into a panic pretty quickly, but his current state of consciousness means it’s a slow descent, his awareness of the press of Steve’s body against his just starting to fight past that thick layer of drowsiness. He stiffens, frozen in place, and his eyes flick up to look at Steve, whose head is lolled against the arm of the couch in a way that should be dorky but is actually painfully endearing.

“Um,” he says loudly, because when Tony Stark is presented with something nice his first instinct is to try and blow it up.

Steve’s eyes flutter open and - rather than jerking back, arms windmilling like Tony might expect - he just looks a little annoyed, his arm tightening around Tony’s waist. “I was sleeping,” he mumbles, his voice low and hoarse. His shifts, lips brushing Tony’s hairline, and Tony’s brain momentarily screeches to a halt.

“—Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Tony splutters, because hello, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, he could figure that out by himself. “I was also sleeping. On top of you. With our legs all tangled together. That’s — nothing about that situation strikes you as odd? Have you been bodysnatched? Loki? Is that actually you?”

“S’me, Loki,” Steve says, except he’s still not fully awake, so it sounds a little like ‘Loko’. “My new plan is. Napping.” Steve yawns and his eyes blink closed, face sliding smoothly back into relaxation. He looks so young like this - all soft and pliant, the usually tight lines of his face smoothed into complete tranquility. Tony wants to touch his lips, to know what they feel like when they’re not frowning.

“Diabolical.” Tony’s only kind of kidding, because there is something villainous about this whole situation. He’s feeling distinctly compromised. _Iron Man down_. Ha. “Seriously, Steve, this is— I don’t know, weird, or whatever. And you know I have work to do, I left everything half-done in the lab, Dum-E’s gonna—“

“Tony,” Steve’s eyes blink open, widening a little. They are startlingly blue, especially this close. “You are talking… so much. Please. No more. Sleep.”

“But I—“

Steve runs a slow, purposeful hand along the length of Tony’s spine and Tony tries really hard not to purr.

“You can’t just—“

Steve’s hand moves to his hair, blunt nails scratching pleasantly across the most sensitive part of his scalp.

Tony makes an embarrassing noise and Steve - the bastard - smiles a little, eyes slipping closed. Tony only holds out for a few more seconds before his elbows buckle in surrender, and he sinks back into Steve’s chest, tentatively pressing his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve hums and Tony’s glad he can’t see the flush moving across his cheeks.

A few moments pass. Steve’s breath evens out completely, the rise and fall of his chest steady and predictable. Tony can’t even remember the last time someone touched him like this - maybe Rhodey, drunk during their MIT days. …Or, he swallows, breath a little shaky on the exhale, maybe it’s even further back than that, like before Maria died.

“This is still weird,” Tony says again, but he doesn’t really mean it, his worry melting like butter against the comforting weight of Steve’s arm around his waist. He feels tired, suddenly. Exhausted.

“Sleep,” Steve commands, and for once, Tony obliges.

 

* * *

 

Tony understands that every mission comes with its own promise of a close call.

That’s what they’ve signed up for, with this avenging business. Each time he suits up he spends a few minutes reminding himself of the reality of his situation: he’s gone and let himself get attached to these people, these people who throw themselves in front of bullets, aliens, and death rays on a regular basis and don’t even get paid enough to justify the zeal with which they do it.

But some days the calls feel closer than others.

He’s been sitting in the med bay for hours, alternating between sleeping in the stiff chair by Steve’s bedside and sitting ramrod straight, just watching him, willing him to wake up. The professionals in the building have assured Tony about a thousand times that Steve’s slated to make a full recovery, but Tony doesn’t trust doctors and, more than that, he doesn’t trust Steve not to just stay unconscious for another month and a half out of pure spite.

Steve does end up waking, but Tony’s right in that he does it in a spiteful way, purposefully blinking into consciousness just when Tony’s slipped out of it for the first time in several hours. By the time he starts to wake again, Steve’s eyes are already on him, wide and curious as he takes a small, delicate bite of jello.

Tony attempts to surreptitiously wipe a little drool away from the corner of his mouth. Steve’s gaze very clearly tracks the movement.

“Hey,” Tony says, clearing his throat ‘cause his voice sounds almost embarrassingly rough, “hey. When did you wake up?”

“A few hours ago.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Not great. I metabolize the painkillers pretty fast.”

“Should’ve worked on that while you were out,” Tony rubs at his eyes, runs a hand through his messy hair. He must look pathetic like this, like he’s been holding some kind of vigil by Steve’s bedside. In truth that’s exactly what he’s been doing, that’s what he does whenever Steve goes down in the field, but it’s a lot more embarrassing when Steve catches him in the act. “I’ll goof around in the lab, try and make a super soldier grade Tylenol.” Tony raises clumsily from his chair, head swimming in retaliation. Jesus, has it really been that long since he last stood up?

When he regains (some) composure, he looks back at Steve, who is still staring at him with this funny expression on his face.

“That’s it?” Steve asks shortly, taking a terse bite of jello.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Steve starts, cheeks going a little pink. He’s got this look of polite irritation mixed with determination, a terrifying combination that makes Tony’s heart thump a little louder. “I just thought— everyone told me you’ve been sitting there, for nearly a day and a half. That you wouldn’t budge, even for the press release and for food and sleep."

Tony Stark does not blush, except he absolutely, one hundred percent is blushing right now, furiously, in fact, because what else could he do when faced with such a blatant callout. He wants to scream ‘Whatever! I love you! Big deal!’, but the most he manages is to look vaguely indignant in Steve's general direction. “Is there a point to this recap, Rogers?”

Steve scowls, setting his jello down on the bedside table with a petulant little thud. The frown reopens a cut above his eyebrow, and redness starts to bead along his forehead. “I just thought you might finally kiss me, is all. Or at the very least hold my hand.”

Tony’s jaw doesn’t actually drop, but it’s a very near thing. “Excuse me?” he splutters. He's weak, though, because he’s also reaching for a cotton pad from the station nearest to Steve and coming up along his bedside, pressing the bandage against the fresh cut above Steve’s brow. Steve looks up at him, still scowling but there’s something softer hidden in it.

“You’ve been watching me for weeks,” he says, relaxing back against the pillows a little. The way he’s looking at Tony - blue eyes all wide and honest and just the slightest bit angry - is so quintessentially Steve that Tony questions himself for a moment. _Why haven’t I kissed him? Why aren’t I kissing him right now?_ “I thought after today - after, you know, what I did—“

Here, of course, Steve refers to saving Tony from an oncoming avalanche of falling debris, as usual at the cost of his own safety.

“—I thought that you’d finally…” Steve pauses and licks his lips. Tony’s hand stills on his forehead, but he doesn’t pull away. “Damn, that wasn’t nearly as smooth as I wanted it to be. I practiced it while you were sleeping and everything.” He pauses, surveying Tony’s expression with those sharp, hopeful eyes. He has no business looking this alert when he’s just had half a building dropped on him. “Am I way off base here, Tony?”

Tony swallows around the dryness in his throat. “No,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” Steve reaches for Tony’s wrist, holding it in place with soft, loosely circled fingers. “So?”

“So.”

Steve’s mouth twitches a little. “Do you need a minute?”

“You are so annoying.”

Steve looks amused, barely controlled laughter lingering in the edges of his voice and his smile. “That was a genuine offer, if you need me to step out for a minute so you can, you know, steady yourself a little, that’s absolutely fine. I mean I do have a gaping side wound that gets a little in the way of mobility, but I’m sure I can work something—“

Tony kisses him.

It’s a little clumsy because the angle’s not quite right, but Steve sighs against his mouth like some kind of fainting Victorian lady and that mostly makes up for it. Steve’s lips taste like that medicinal, old person chapstick he wears and his breath is warm and sweet against Tony’s. “Come down here,” he mumbles, tugging at Tony’s neck, and Tony can’t help but oblige.

He sinks down onto the bed, half sprawled across Steve, one arm around his neck and one hand buried in his hair. Steve’s whole body shivers when Tony pulls a little, which is a very interesting revelation Tony is tucking away for later. It’s intoxicating to have Steve close like this - breathing in his scent, tongue running across his lips, hands wandering across over expanses of skin he's never had access to. Tony thinks it’s different, doing this with the man beneath him, because he’s been watching and wondering for so long. Probably, he internally admits, since he was twelve years old.

Still, he can’t quite forget where they are and why they’re there. He pulls back a little, frowning down at Steve despite the fact he looks so kiss-bitten and beautiful. “I’m mad at you now,” Tony informs, running a leisurely hand up his side, “stop launching yourself under falling buildings.”

“You weren’t mad at me before,” Steve points out, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”

Steve hums as if this is reasonable, rubbing soothing circles between Tony’s shoulder blades.

“Also, I can’t be half on top of you,” Tony argues, shifting a little, “It’s not good for the recovery process.”

“I don’t really care,” Steve replies breezily, recapturing Tony’s mouth in another kiss. Yeah, Tony swoons a little, ‘cause who the hell wouldn’t.

 

* * *

 

Tony’s phone goes off at 7 in the morning and he scrambles to snatch it from the bedside table, shaking off the remnants of sleep and blinking rapidly at the screen. His excitement dims as makes out Maria Hill’s contact info and lets out a long-suffering groan, shoving the offending object back under his pillow.

Steve is on assignment in Africa and Tony is trying (failing) miserably at not pouting about it.

He should be back by tonight, but at that moment, twisted up in their sheets and spread-eagled obnoxiously, Tony aches for him. He misses everything from his terrible bland breakfasts to the way he smells when he first wakes up (like sweat and cheap discount detergent). The pining descended to truly absurd levels the night before, when Clint texted him a video of Steve gently placing his hand on the forehead of a baby elephant and Tony had spent the rest of the evening resenting that baby elephant in a very serious way.

Tony’s phone goes off again. He hates how quickly he reaches under the pillow to retrieve it.

This time, much to his relief and delight, it actually is a text from Steve. It reads _Boarding the jet now. See you tonight. What do you want for dinner?_  Tony tucks his smile into his pillow and doesn’t bother repressing the urge to immediately text back _your ass_. He quickly follows it with _Can you pick up food from Margon on your way back? Surprise me with the order._ He hopes Steve concedes - Tony doesn’t want to go out, he’s in the mood to spend the entire evening eating guava cheesecake off Steve’s abs before falling asleep with Steve spooning him in that usual, overaggressive-octopus-type way.

Tony’s phone buzzes again. _Will do. Love you._

 _Lame_ , Tony texts back, head feeling all soft and drowsy, _Love you too._

Usually, this is the time he’d wake up and shake off these mushy feelings in an effort to actually get some work done, but today he simply rolls around in bed for another half hour, stretching out his spine and flopping about the sheets.

He pulls up the feeds from the rest of the floors in the tower, examining the footage lazily. Clint and Natasha are eating pop tarts in the kitchen, Thor is watching Real Housewives in the den, Sam is punching out drones in the training room. There’s something nice about the fact that the tower’s buzzing with life even before Tony’s properly woken up. He’s never had a home like this - one that’s noisy and messy and properly lived in by people other than just Tony. He must be feeling sappy about more than just Steve today, because the thought makes him feel a little warm all over.

When Tony finally gathers up the willpower to roll out of bed, he lingers in the closet and the bathroom. He hesitates, then reaches for one of Steve’s sweatshirts - folded all neat and clean, military style and color coordinated. He tugs it over his shoulders and it’s a little big, but it smells like Steve and Tony swears it’s softer than anything he owns. After another moment’s hesitation, he reaches for Steve’s book off the nightstand on his way out.

As it turns out, lingering sexual tension and heartache make great fuel for science, and he gets a lot done. He knows because DUM-E has to put out twice as many fires as is his daily average, which Tony finds has a direct correlation to genius and productivity.

He reads Steve’s book on his break. He’s got the most random collection of literature Tony’s ever seen in his life. When Tony first met him he was working his way through these terrible Harlequin novels, and then the next month he’d been onto Toni Morrison, then after that he’d picked up Harry Potter. He’d most recently been engrossed in tales of Camelot, an interest which he pretends not to see the irony in when Tony tries to tease him for it.

The story Tony grabbed is titled ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’. It’s short and translated into prose, simple enough that Tony makes it through about forty pages without realizing how much time has passed. Tony hasn’t read any other Arthurian tales but he assumes they’re all a little like this - centered around mysticism, virtue, wholesome love, and glorious treasure. He searches for pieces of Steve between the pages, quietly noting that Gawain volunteers himself for the axe because he thinks, given his strength and wit, he’d be the smallest loss.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

Tony glances up, glasses slipping down his nose a little at the abruptness of the gesture. He breaks out into a grin because there is Steve - leaning up against the doorway to the workshop with a goofy smile on his face, holding a truly enormous bag of takeout in one well-sculpted arm.

“Sure am,” Tony sets down the book, winking at Steve from behind the thick frames of his glasses. “Tall, blonde, and handsome. They say half the country’s in love with him, but I say he’s a giant dork.” Steve raises an eyebrow and Tony smiles sharply. “Doesn’t matter, though, ‘cause he’s all mine.”

Steve blushes and sets down the takeout on the nearest available surface, crossing over to Tony in a few long strides and swooping down to press a kiss on his mouth.

“Oh,” Tony starts, smiling and pulling back a little, still close enough that the tip of his nose brushes Steve’s, “sorry, did you think I meant you? This is so embarrassing, Mr. Rogers, but I was actually talking about Thor—“

Steve makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat and cuts Tony off, kissing him again and wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him up into a standing position and smoothing his large palm across the small of Tony’s back. Tony goes loose and soft in his arms, pulling back to press a kiss under Steve’s eye, then to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. Steve’s arms tighten around him.

“So what’s in the bag?”

“Well,” Steve says, gaze momentarily flicking over his shoulder. “There’s that cheesecake you like, two orders of tostones, arroz con pollo, and, god I don’t know, something like twelve empanadas? And I think they threw in some cane juice, ‘cause you’re such a good tipper.”

Tony lets out a vaguely pornographic gasp and kisses Steve again, fingers sliding into his hair. Steve hums a little at the blunt pressure of his fingers and Tony can’t help but smile. “That was the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me. Why are you so sexy right now?”

“Probably because you haven’t eaten in seven hours. I bet when you look at me all you see is a super-soldier sized plantain.”

Tony licks teasingly at Steve’s disapproving frown and Steve pinches his thigh in reprimand. They kiss a little longer, Tony backing into his desk and hopping up onto it so Steve can move between his legs, hook his hands under Tony’s thighs. Tony loves feeling surrounded like this, smelling, touching, and tasting nothing but Steve.

“I don’t wanna take another job without you for a while,” Steve says, pulling back and pressing his forehead against Tony’s, “past week has felt— worse than usual.”

“Yeah, for me, too,” Tony can’t help the little prickle of relief that Steve’s been feeling the same way. Realistically, he knows the second he’s called away on duty he’ll go without question, because that’s who he is, but it’s nice to think that missing Tony will at least give him a moment’s pause. “Missed you a lot, baby.”

“Missed you, too. Clint said I was gonna scare away the arms dealers with my obvious contraction of cooties. And he keeps asking me if we got secretly married.”

“Let ‘em wonder.”

Steve hums in agreement, tightening his palms around Tony’s thighs and lifting him just the slightest bit off the desk. Tony obligingly wraps his legs around Steve’s waist. “In that case,” Steve noses along the column of Tony’s neck, voice a low rumble against the hollow of Tony’s throat, “can I take you to bed, Mr. Rogers?”

“Why, Mrs. Stark,” Tony grins at Steve’s deepening blush, “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
